


Broken

by JustThatOneGirl1815



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman - Fandom, DC Comics, DCU, Red Robin (Comics), Teen Titans - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Cutting, Depression, Hurt No Comfort, Sad Tim Drake, Sorry guys, Suicidal Tim Drake, Tim is suicidal, change my mind, he’s a cinnamon roll who doesn’t deserve this, no happy ending, oh baby don’t be sad, tim drake suicide, trigger warning, you will cry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-25 05:21:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21930622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustThatOneGirl1815/pseuds/JustThatOneGirl1815
Summary: Tim Drake is broken, like a shattered window, and no one notices.He can’t take it anymore.
Comments: 54
Kudos: 495
Collections: Works good enough I will definitely reread





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, why are you reading this?  
> Not that I blame you, because I’m a sucker for depressing fanfiction but seriously.  
> Anyways, some trigger warnings here, obviously suicidal thoughts and actions. 
> 
> To all of those struggling with that stuff, um, don’t follow Tim’s steps here, because this fic doesn’t end in sunshine and rainbows. I love you guys.

There was something in the mirror, something sad and broken, a boy whose eyes betrayed a numbness beyond measure. Tim recognized this boy as himself, but part of him denied it. He wasn’t this broken, surely.

He took a breath, watching the boy’s chest rise a fall in the mirror in front of him, perfectly in time with his own.

He blinked, once, twice. The boy did the same.

It was silly, to be testing a reflection on how well it could reflect you, but he didn’t care. This reflection wasn’t him.

He pursed his lips, watching the reflection do the same. Tim turned away from the reflection, instead opting to go down to the Batcave and suit up for another night as Robin.

* * *

Tim was sitting in his bed, too-long hair falling into his eyes. He felt broken, like the boy in the mirror.

He closed his eyes, taking a shaky breath.

His brain wandered for a moment, to the shining eyes of a blonde girl who had an obsession with purple.

He shook his head, forcing the memory away.

A knock sounded at the door. Tim stood, unsure as to if the tears in his eyes were his own or if they were someone else’s, but wiping them away all the same. He opened the door, his hand hesitating on the handle for a moment, scared he’d open it to find another dead loved one.

The door swung open, a smiling Dick Grayson on the other side. “Hey, baby bird. You feeling up to a night out?” The man held out two tickets to a play in Gotham’s new theater.

Tim plastered a smile on his face, feeling the fakeness take him over, masking him into a perfect, unproblematic son. “Sure, let me go brush my hair real quick.”

He hurried to the bathroom, pausing to look in the mirror. It wasn’t the boy that stared back at him, but a doll. His smile was all too bright, all too fake. His eyes gleamed in the artificial way of a painting, and as he swiped the comb through his hair, he saw the fake way it settled on his head.

He glanced at the counter top as he set the brush down, though there was nothing special about it.

He walked to join Dick, putting a small bounce in his step as he did so.

* * *

Tim was looking in the mirror again.

This wasn’t a broken boy staring back at him, like a toy that could be fixed by a skilled professional.

This was a shattered wine glass, one that had been dropped five too many times.

Five.

Mom.

Dad.

Steph.

Kon.

Bart.

He took a deep breath, seeing the way his shoulders shook slightly in the reflection.

Bruce had asked him yesterday if he was okay. Dick had done the same. With each question, Tim merely put a brighter, more convincing smile. He told them what they wanted to hear:

“I’m okay. Well, you know, I’m not okay, but I will be. Just give me some time to grieve and I’ll be good as new.”

Good as new.

Tim wished it were that simple.

He glanced down at the counter top. Sitting next to his hair brush was a small blade.

Thin, it’s silver smooth blade reflecting the lighting in the bathroom. He stared at it, tracing his eyes over the small curve of the blade, the handle it sat upon, the shadows it cast.

And then he turned around, leaving it out on the counter to taunt him another time.

* * *

“You have to understand—“

“No, I don’t.” Tim responded. He was showing weakness, he could feel it in the pang of his heart, but Dick didn’t notice.

The second Dick had put on that suit, he’d stopped being Tim’s brother, he was just a cold and impersonal as a metal wall.

At least the real Batman cared about Tim.

“This is all I have now.” Tim told Dick, biting his lip to mask the shake in his voice, his arms crossed over his chest to hide his trembling hands.

Dick merely stared ahead at the computer.

“Oh, are _you_ still here?” A cold voice sounded behind him, growling out the ‘you’ like it was a insult worthy of the dirtiest mouthed criminals.

Tim turned, “You have got to be kidding me.”

Because standing right there, in front of all the trophies— Tim’s trophies, many of them were— was Damian Wayne, his smug smile only the second most hated thing Tim saw, the first being the Robin suit Damian was adorned in.

Tim’s suit.

Something inside him shattered, he couldn’t do this. This couldn’t be happening.

“Looks like we’ll have to update the security in the cave, Batman. Keep out the riff raff.”

Dick wasn’t even standing up for Tim, just sitting there.

Tim’s brokenness was replaced for a moment, “How can you let him wear that costume, Dick? What earth are we on that you choose him over me?”

Dick didn’t respond, he didn’t even look at Tim, instead looking at Damian.

Tim blinked, realization hitting him. This earth. It was this earth in which Dick Grayson, the one person Tim thought he still had left, abandoned him, choosing some— some demon spawn, over his own brother.

“Don’t be so sensitive, _Drake_.” Damian chided.

Tim couldn’t take this, he could feel that tight feeling in his throat.

He found himself leaving, and only then did Dick speak up. “Damian, shut up. Now.”

“Sorry, Drake. You’re still part of the team. Maybe the batgirl costume is available!”

That was it.

He whirled around, punching Damian in the face. He could feel the emotion in his voice, the rawness, the broken, shattered tone that he’d kept covered and hidden for so long. “MY NAME IS TIM WAYNE!” He yelled in Damian’s face.

He was Tim Wayne. Son of Bruce Wayne.

Bruce Wayne...

...who was dead.

He felt arms wrapping around him, Dick’s arms.

The first thought was that it was a hug, a brotherly embrace, understanding his pain.

But then he felt the forcefulness of the grip, the way Dick yelled, “TIM! BACK OFF!”

Damian was on the ground, blood dripping from his mouth. “I let you get that shot in, Drake. I want you to feel good about yourself. God knows you don’t have any other reason.”

And the worst part?

Damian was right.

Tim had no reason to feel good. 

He hadn’t for a long time.

Dick was saying something, but it was just a blur to Tim’s ears. He ripped himself from Dick’s grip, “You want me to back off? _Fine_.” He growled, his pain masked by anger.

Dick was yelling something after him as he left, but it just swirled through the air instead of reaching Tim’s brain. He stormed through the house, leaving the cave.

“THIS IS NOT HAPPENING!” He yelled, tossing a table.

It was the only thing he could do to release the pain in his heart.

A vase shattered against a wall.

Tim fell to his knees, limbs shaking, tears threatening to spill out of his eyes. He leaned back against a wall, moving to hug his knees. There was something warm trailing down his fingers, he glanced down.

It was red, dark red, metallic. Blood.

His blood.

He looked at the shattered vase, the glass of broken pictures strewn around him.

There was only one thing he could think of, this feeling...

Not the broken, that was always there, the other thing.

Bruce was alive.

He had to be.

Because... if he wasn’t... then Tim truly had nothing left.

* * *

Tim sat in his room at Wayne Manor.

He hadn’t been here in so long.

Yet nothing had changed, clothes still littered the floor, though he doubted they’d fit anymore.

Tim had changed a lot in the months he’d been gone.

Bruce was alive. So was Steph. And Kon. And Bart.

So why was it that he still felt so broken?

He moved to the bathroom. Sitting there on the counter, untouched, was a clean, sparkling blade.

He picked it up.

He pulled up his sleeve, looking at his arm.

He drew the blade slowly across his skin, barely breaking it.

It was such a shallow cut, almost like a paper cut.

He looked up to the mirror, seeing the broken boy once again.

His hair had grown out, flopping around his skull in whatever way it wanted. His blue eyes were grayer now, steel.

He drew the blade across his skin again, feeling the nerves spike up in protest. He looked down at it, seeing the red elixir of blood spilling from the wound.

He did it again.

And again.

And again.

* * *

Tim sat on the edge of a rooftop, looking out at the dark cityscape in front of him. He closed his eyes, wondering what it would be like to fall and let the ground catch him instead of a grapple.

He rolled up his sleeve, looking at the neat, horizontal lines that covered it.

One, two, three, he counted, ten, eleven, twelve.

Twelve.

He rolled his sleeve back down.

He heard someone land next to him. It didn’t take him long to recognize the near silent footfalls of Cassandra Cain.

She sat down next to him. He took a breath, steadying himself. She was the hardest to hide his pain from, but it wasn’t impossible.

He’d been doing it for years now, after all.

“Hey, Black Bat.”

“Red Robin.” She spoke quietly. He liked hearing her voice, how she only said what was necessary. “How are you?”

No point in lying, “I feel like shit.” He replied.

She turned, “Oh?”

He nodded, “But you know, I’ll be okay. One day at a time.”

One day at a time. More like one minute at a time. Just getting through the next hour was always a challenge.

She placed a hand on his, “One day at a time.”

He smiled at her, it was broken, he knew.

Maybe it was time someone saw how broken he really was.

* * *

Tim didn’t know what had done it for him.

Maybe it was Damian’s jabs at how horrible a person Tim was. Or that Dick hadn’t bothered to tell him off about it. Maybe it was that Bruce had ignored Tim’s silent pleads for help each time he asked to skip out on patrol or wrapped his arms around his mentor— his dad— searching for one ounce of warmth.

It’s not that it wasn’t there. It was that Tim couldn’t feel it.

Even Alfred’s warmth was gone. Once Tim considered Alfred to be the best of all of them, and he still was, but Tim’s dull eyes couldn’t look at the butler without feeling guilty.

Maybe it was Steph’s new boyfriend. Maybe it was that Cass had moved back to Hong Kong. Maybe it was that even his closest friends were starting to feel like ghosts to Tim.

He didn’t know.

All he knew is that he couldn’t take it anymore.

He had a simple note written,

“ _Dear friends, loved ones, and those somewhere in between,_

_Goodbye.”_

It was so simple, so easy. He’d signed his name at the bottom, and stuck that one sticker he’d been saving to use in a special occasion since he was twelve right next to that signature. He’d taken a deep breath and folded in neatly, sitting the note on the desk where it couldn’t be missed.

He’d cleaned his room, packed his things into boxes set them all in the corner.

He’d smiled. A true, genuine smile.

The house was empty, save for him. He knew this for a fact, because Bruce, Alfred, Dick, and Damian were all out for an important event that Tim had opted out of. They’d be gone for another hour, at the least. Steph was with her boyfriend at the moment, Cass was in Hong Kong, Jason was... somewhere.

He looked down at the gun in his hand, before moving to the window. There was one more thing he wanted to see.

A hummingbird flitted past the window, it’s vibrant green color making Tim smile. He’d put out the feeder years ago, because he liked seeing the small birds buzzing around, oblivious to the pain of the world.

And then he pressed the cold metal of the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger.


	2. Aftermath

It took them too long.

Dick hated himself for not realizing it sooner.

Because he’d come up to Tim’s room that Monday night, needing some info on a case he’d started working. And when he knocked, there was no answer. “Tim?” He yelled.

Tim was probably asleep. “Hey! Timbo, open up!”

And yet, there was no response.

Dick’s eyebrows creased, maybe he wasn’t in his room?

But something in his gut told him to open the door.

* * *

Bruce found Dick on his knees, sobbing in Tim’s room. “Dick?” He asked, worried. “What’s—“ That’s when he saw it.

The gun.

The blood.

The body.

He felt his knees go weak.

Dick was clinging to Tim’s body, clutching him tight, tears streaming down his face, uneven sobs escaping his lips.

Bruce wanted to do something, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t move. All he could do was stare at his oldest son clutching his brother’s body, tightly, his shoulders shaking.

His gaze drifted around the room, catching sight of a folded piece of paper on Tim’s desk. He picked it up, ignoring the slight tremble to his fingers, and unfolded it.

“Dear friends, loved ones, and those somewhere in between,

Goodbye.”

The paper crumpled in his grip.

* * *

“WAYNE HEIR COMMITS SUICIDE IN HIS OWN HOME”

Jason stared at the article, it was trending on the internet.

He was stuck, staring at the title. Millions of thoughts were rushing through his head.

Dick? No, Dick wouldn’t do this.

Damian? No, he was too young...

Then it clicked, and he was immediately faced with the soft features and gentle smile of Tim Drake.

He slammed the computer shut, throwing it across the room, watching it shatter upon impact with his wall.

Good.

He yelled, throwing everything off his desk, watching a ceramic piece shatter on the floor.

He stopped.

Jason knelt down by the floor, not caring if he got cut, he picked up the broken ceramic, instantly feeling guilty.

Years ago, Tim had made this with him at a Paint Your Own Pottery Studio. The thing was disgusting, because Jason and Tim were just slinging paints at each other and sticking random stamped designs on it. It honestly looked like a toddler had painted it, but Tim had given it to Jason as a welcome-back-from-the-dead-anniversary gift, and Jason had ignored it mostly, only keeping it around out of obligation.

Now it lay on the ground, broken beyond repair. Jason felt something rising in his stomach.

His phone rang.

He looked at the caller ID to see it was Dick.

“I know,” He said quietly into the phone, hearing his own shaking voice. “I— I’m going to come over.”

When he hung up, he noticed the 20 missing calls on his phone. Bruce, Dick, Alfred, Damian, Dick, Dick, Dick, Bruce...

Some of them were from yesterday.

He felt sick.

Jason picked up the largest piece of pottery, looking at it, wondering where he’d gone wrong.   
  


* * *

Stephanie Brown was standing at the doorway to Wayne Manor, unsure as to why she’d been summoned as Steph, and not Spoiler.

When the door opened, it opened to Damian.

She knew things were wrong when she saw the shake of the boy’s hands, the way his expression seemed defeated.

Glancing around, she saw Dick clinging onto Alfred, both of them sobbing.

“What... what happened?”

She couldn’t help but notice that Bruce wasn’t in the room. “Did something happen to Bruce?”

She felt a heavy hand on her shoulder, she turned. It was Bruce. The man’s eyes were rimmed with red. “You’re okay... wha—“

“It’s Tim.” The man said, his voice deadly quiet. “He killed himself.”

Stephanie Brown was clinging onto Bruce Wayne, her body shaking with sobs she didn’t know she had in her.

She didn’t pull herself together like she wanted to, she wasn’t strong enough to stop the tears from falling, she just became more aware of what was happening. Dick was calling Jason, or trying to, because Jason wasn’t answering.

At some point, Alfred had taken Bruce’s position in the embrace.

Bruce had gone to make a press statement.

It took an hour for her to get up to Tim’s room, simply because with each step she felt even more broken. Dick was holding her hand, his face blotched from crying, but no more tears could fall.

She wished the tears would stop falling.

When she stepped into the room, the first thing she noticed was how empty it was. There was nothing that said this was Tim’s room, except the bird feeder outside and the body.

Another sob racked her body, which already felt too weak. She fell to Tim’s side, grabbing at his clothes, shaking him. “Tim...”

The bullet hole through his brain was enough to know he wouldn’t be waking up.   
  


* * *

A motorcycle was parked outside Titan’s Tower that Tuesday night, it’s owner a broad man with a white streak in his hair and tear tracks down his face. He rang the doorbell, hoping that the people inside hadn’t found out the news through the internet.

He wanted to tell them himself.

He closed his eyes as he waited, fists clenched. He kept seeing a face in his mind, Tim’s face, the broken look in the boy’s eyes.

God, how hadn’t he seen it before?

The door opened to a bright eyed Bart Allen, though the other Teen Titans weren’t far behind.

“Hey,” He greeted, his voice rough and gravely.

“Jason?” Kon asked, “What are you doing here?”

Jason looked down at his feet and coughed, trying to clear his throat which had clenched up with the thought of his little brother. “I.. I wanted to make sure you guys heard the news from me, well, I don’t know, a person I guess, and uhm... not the headlines.”

“What news?” Cassie asked. Cutting right to the chase, he noticed. It was the last thing he wanted.

He walked inside towards the living room. The Titans Tower had never been his home, but he knew his way around. In all honesty though, Jason was just trying to build up the courage to tell them what happened.

He grabbed a tissue box off the table and handed it to Cassie, ignoring their confused faces and Kon’s quiet question of “What do we need those for?”

Jason took a deep breath, feeling the oxygen rush into his lungs, and found himself momentarily wondering if Tim had felt that before he pulled the trigger. “It’s about Tim.” Jason paused, clenching his fists. He should’ve just gone straight to the manor instead of stopping here first. God, he was stupid. He should’ve let Dick do this. Or Bruce. Or someone else.

Someone who actually cared enough for Tim to call him by his real name.

Someone who didn’t know the boy only as ‘Replacement’

Jason looked up at the teens in front of him, seeing their worried gazes. He had to tell them, because he may not have tried to care about Tim when he was alive, but goddammit he was going to care about Tim now. And that started by telling his best friends what happened.

He knew he owed his brother that much.

Right?

“He killed himself.” Jason finally said, feeling the pain in his voice more than he was hearing it.

The reaction was worse than he expected, because frankly Jason had refused to think that far.

Kon’s fists were clenched, the shock on his face the only evidence of the pain he felt. Cassie was crying, the tissue box now in use. Bart had collapsed, the usually energetic boy unable to find the strength to stand.

Jason didn’t know what came over him, but he approached Kon and brought the younger boy into a hug. Jason didn’t know what it was like to lose a best friend, but he’d just lost his brother, and as much as he denied it, right now all he wanted was a hug.

Kon squeezed Jason’s shoulder’s tightly, his Kryptonian strength showing through. He felt the arms of Cassie and Bart join them, and for the first time, Jason let himself truly cry.

* * *

  
  


The funeral wasn’t like it is in the movies. It wasn’t a gloomy day, the was no rain, no black umbrellas and long black coats. It was sunny, perhaps the sunniest day Gotham had seen in a long time. The air was warm and fresh and it smelled like roses.

The only semblance of grief was the family in black suits and dresses, whose voices shook and eyes were red, standing around the ornate gold coffin, probably worth millions, that held something that was worth even more.

A thin, pale boy who was dressed in a nice suit, whose eyes were closed, and for once he looked at peace.

That was the problem though, because no one in the family liked that peaceful look on his face, because it reminded them of their failure.

The gravestone was marked Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne, loved Hero, Brother, and Son. July 19th, 2000 - April 17th 2020.

Cameras flashed around the funeral scene, Vicki Vale could be seen reporting the story, her heart as empty as Tim’s steel blue eyes.

Dick Grayson was first to speak, his voice strong despite the pain that could be heard in it. “Tim... Tim was the best little brother I could have asked for. He wanted nothing more than to make sure his heroes were safe, and for the longest time, I was one of those people. Bruce was one of those people. We were his heroes, and we let him down. I think,” Dick paused his speech, looking down at the ground and wiping his eyes. “I think we didn’t let him know just how much he meant to us. Not just when he helped us, helped me with a case for work, or helped Alfred do the dishes, or helped Bruce at Wayne Enterprises, but when he was there for us, cracking a joke or giving us a hug when we needed it most. I only wish... I only wish I’d been there to give him that hug too.” Dick broke off, tears streaming down his face again.

In the audience, Stephanie Brown had her hand in Cass’ trying her best to keep it together. Jason Todd, often absent for public events, was there, full frontal, standing right between Bruce and Alfred, trying his best to support the other two men despite the fact that he needed the support too. Kon, Bart, and Cassie were in the second row, eyes glassy and red rimmed, shoulders shaking with sobs they couldn’t control.

Dick, knees shaking, pulled himself together. “I don’t want us to remember him like he was broken, like he wasn’t strong enough to keep living, because— because Tim was stronger than any of us. He was always there for me, for anyone who needed him, and that’s how I think he should be remembered. Not as broken, not as weak, but as a hero. A hero who lost the battle to an enemy we never knew.”

Dick’s tears shone on his face as he walked down from the microphone back to his seat. There was a pause before the next person took the stage.

“Drake and I never got along,” Damian Wayne began, having to stand on his tip toes to reach the microphone, “in fact we fought more often than not. I don’t have any sappy stories to tell, or generous words of how great a man he was, for my encounters with him often consisted solely of yelling at each other and trying our best to give the other a black eye.” A few people laughed as Damian continued. “But despite that all, I never gave him enough credit. He was the son Bruce needed when I wasn’t, the brother Dick needed when I wasn’t, and he was the only one who spoke his mind about me when no one else would. I never told Drake how much I respect him, and now I realize that I never will be able to.” Damian looked down at his hands, pausing for a long time. It almost seemed like he was done speaking, when he looked back up at the crowd.

“I am proud to call Timothy my brother. And I am honored to call him a Wayne.”

Damian walked off the stage as people in the audience clapped. Had anyone asked, Bruce Wayne would deny the tears that fell down his face as Damian’s speech, but he knew they were there.

He wondered if Tim knew it too.

Jason Todd was supposed to be dead, but he found himself walking to the stage anyways. He wasn’t meant to give a speech, in fact the person up next was meant to be Kon. But still, he felt like he needed to say something. One dead brother to another.

The crowd of people, people here to mourn Tim Drake-Wayne, were silent as Jason walked up. He didn’t bother to keep his footfalls from making sound against the floor of the podium, instead letting his heavy steps echo in the hearts of those in front of him.

He cleared his throat.

“Replacement. At first I meant it as an insult, a sneer, and crude remark. But as time went on, Replacement stopped being a slur on Tim’s behalf. I said it with love, because there’s no one I’d rather take my place. Replacement was there when I couldn’t be, replacing me in the best way possible. He gave me gifts to celebrate the fact that I’m not actually dead,” Jason chuckled, wringing his hands. Today was the day he let Gotham find out the truth about him. But today was also Tim’s day. “He was kind, he understood what it meant to be a Wayne when no one else did. He may have replaced me, but goddamn, he was a better Replacement than I ever gave him credit for. He loved being a Wayne, loved it in a way that I never did.” Jason looked to Bruce, red rimmed eyes connecting. They both knew that Jason wasn’t just talking about being a Wayne, he was talking about being a Robin.

“Tim never asked for anything from me, but if he did now, I’d give him the world. I think all of us would, because Tim meant so much more than he ever gave himself credit for.

“Replacement became an endearing term over time, but I wish I’d just called him brother. Because that’s what he was, that’s what he is. The best goddamn little brother I could ever have asked for.” 

Jason nodded and stepped off the podium. He heard Dick let out a whoop, and found himself laughing. Leave it up to Dick Grayson to celebrate at a funeral. He wrapped his arms around Dick in a tight hug, making sure to let his brother know how much he loved him.

Kon was up next, and everyone waited with patient silence as Kon stood up at the microphone, lost for words.

“Tim Drake was the best friend I could have ever asked for. He... there isn’t words for how great he was. Even when he was down, he’d find a way to bring me up. I just wish I’d been there to do the same. I... I had a speech to say, a couple stories about Tim, like that one time he fell asleep on a roller coaster, but now I don’t think I can—“

Kon wiped his face. “Jason said it, Tim deserves the world. I hope he finds it.”

Kon walked off the stage, collapsing into his chair with broken sobs.

Bruce Wayne approached the stage, and any news cameras that weren’t already pointed at the stage now were. Why he’d allowed the cameras, Bruce didn’t know. Maybe it’s cause he wanted as many people as possible to love Tim as much as he did.

“Tim may not have been my son from birth, but that never meant anything to me. Amongst my other four children, it’s easy to forget about the one who never begged for attention. The one who quietly waited for you to notice him and give him a hug.That was the best part, because I always got to him last, and he’d have the warmest hug waiting for me and a bright smile on his face. Late at night, when all the others were asleep, we would watch dumb detective shows together where it’s painfully obvious who the killer is straight from the beginning, and each time we’d laugh about it over bowls of hot fudge coated ice cream. Tim didn’t ask for attention, he never put himself in the spotlight, but that’s what made his love the best. It always came last, waiting for you to notice, and yet how could you forget?

“Tim was never forgettable. He isn’t someone you can just gloss over. He’s a genius, he’s funny, he’s unique. He would drink 7 cups of coffee a day and ride his skateboard in my office just because he could. He would break his arm and laugh about it before telling me that he’d very much like to go to the doctor now please. He’d go out on dates and come back with a massive smile and a soda stain on his shirt and when I’d ask him about it he’d say, ‘Oh you know, I was just too busy admiring her beauty to notice the person with a Sprite in my way.’ And then he’d smile and go upstairs and watch the hummingbirds outside his window.

“For all the time we spent watching those detective shows, you’d think I’d be a good enough detective to have noticed something was wrong. But instead I glossed over it, over him. The one time I shouldn’t have. And now he’s gone.. and I want nothing more than to watch one more episode with him. To hug him one last time.. To tell him I love him, and that he’s the best son..” Bruce’s voice cracked as he wiped away the tears falling down his face. He couldn’t do this—

“He’s the best son I could have ever asked for.” Bruce put his face in his hands, shoulders shaking, “And I don’t want him to go.”

* * *

Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne was buried next to Thomas and Martha Wayne, and his grave was adorned with fresh roses every week.

Sometimes, late at night, you can catch a Bat visiting the grave. Kneeling in respect for the fallen hero.

No one says anything when they see Nightwing sit at the grave, tracing the letters slowly, or when Red Hood occasionally patrols the area, keeping out anyone who dared disrespect the graves, no one says anything when Robin kneels down in front of the stone or when Spoiler brings flowers.

And no one says anything, afraid their eyes are wrong, when the Big Bad Bat collapses at the grave, shoulders shaking with silent sobs for the little boy buried there. The little boy who was gone too soon. The little broken boy whose name was Tim Drake-Wayne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For extra tears, listen to Little Soldier Boy (yes, the one from Avatar the Last Airbender) and/or Time of Your Life by Green Day.

**Author's Note:**

> Join my [Discord Server?](https://discord.gg/Fakns8Ctmz)


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